East Village Pizza had these three really pushy yuppies sitting inside when we went in. Two sort of conventionally attractive women and a dude wearing a nazi overcoat with Mitch Miller facial hair, who possessed a sense of entitlement to behave aggressively to the staff in the way that only people who have never worked a service job in their lives are capable of. It was a total bummer and I really wanted to side with the pizza guy and write them a great review because of the shit they must have to deal with from all the Rudes and Cheaps in this neighborhood, but then they gave us our pizza and it was just kind of shitty so I guess I don't get to do that.
This pizza was kind of a bummer. It was way overcooked, so the cheese was burnt and the bottom was brittle-crunchy, but there was still a whole layer of totally uncooked dough that left the whole thing feeling like a mealy apple in my mouth. Kevin said it reminded him of Papa John's, which reminded me of the only time I even ate Papa John's. I had just helped Kevin move into a house he used to live in, and to celebrate me and him and our friend Dustin drank an entire bottle of Jameson we found while we were moving. By 6pm or so, we were all pretty much blacked out, kicking a soccerball around on the street in Bed Stuy when Kevin remembered that the moving truck he rented came with a Papa John's giftcard. We ordered the pizza entirely over the internet and never spoke to a real human through the entire process. I remember doing a lot of really drunk pontificating about man's estrangement from man and how that is embodied by our ability to drunkenly order a pizza on the computer. I don't really remember much after that but I do remember coming to next to Dustin and Kevin, all of us fully dressed, covered in "butter sauce" and feeling an acute sense of shame.
Rating:
East Village Pizza - $2.50
145 1st Ave (at 9th)
New York, NY 10003
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